


Breathing in Your Dust

by meganlodon



Series: Johnlock and Arctic Monkeys Songs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arctic Monkeys - Freeform, Intercrural Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, johnlock and arctic monkeys, kind of a prompt fill, lots of unspecified time passage, not really - Freeform, well more like mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganlodon/pseuds/meganlodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Secrets I have held in my heart<br/>Are harder to hide than I thought<br/>Maybe I just wanna be yours<br/>I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing in Your Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Kayla, aka 'wutsons' on tumblr, a (kind of) prompt fill: sherlock and john fucking to I Wanna Be Yours

_I wanna be your vacuum cleaner_   
_Breathing in your dust_

Sherlock looks over at where John sits, where John reads the newspaper, where John looks up and reprimands Sherlock when he handles dangerous chemicals over their kitchen table, where John sits in dignified reverence when he plays violin. Sometimes, he catches a glance in his direction, or a look that stays far longer than he would expect, and the longer that they live together and work together, the more frequent these glances. A wisp of a thought passes through Sherlock’s mind, a single word that has lingered for much longer than he could have ever thought: _John_.

_I wanna be your Ford Cortina_   
_I will never rust._

As more time passes, another word is added to the constant lexicon, but there is a hesitance that his mind illogically disregards. _His… John._ Lately, he’s been playing the same song over and over again, mainly in his head, but once in a while, he lets it reverberate through the flat. Honestly speaking, he knows that he’s lying to himself when he says that he only plays it _once in a while_ , but John doesn’t to seem to notice the frequency. He does tap or shake his foot to the beat most time when it’s playing, and it is notably more subconscious rather than not.

When it’s cold in the flat, Sherlock plays it, and they often sit in comfortable silence, John nursing a hot cuppa while Sherlock leaves his forgotten on the table, and he sprawls out on the couch, immersed in his mind palace and figuring out as much as he can about this man that he’s so enamored with yet failing to understand him as well.

_If you like your coffee hot_   
_Let me be your coffee pot_   
_You call the shots babe_   
_I just wanna be yours_

Sherlock can hear him thrashing and moaning upstairs in his bed. He makes a mental note on John in his mind palace, checking the time and double-checking the date before noting down _another nightmare_. There’s an unfamiliar constriction in his chest from the struggles he can hear. He pads up the stairs to John’s room, the door ajar and the groans and even whimpers of fear and pain all too close. The door barely creaks when he pushes it open, and he makes it over to the writhing man and sits. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do—he doesn’t know how to comfort John as he struggles with memories of death, blood, heat and sand. _Comfort him_ , he thinks—Sherlock doesn’t know how to comfort. He isn’t empathetic, and he is rarely sympathetic.

By some immeasurable fortune, he formulates a way to comfort John, and he scrabbles through his pockets to find his phone and triumphantly pulls it out of his left dressing gown pocket. The small victory is cut short by a whimper, and Sherlock quickly opens his music library and selects the song.

_Secrets I have held in my heart_   
_Are harder to hide than I thought_   
_Maybe I just wanna be yours_   
_I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours_

John has already calmed down, relaxing against the body heat curled around him, relaxing into the hand that brushing his hair away from his face, relaxing the tension and smoothing the lines from his skin. Even, deep breathing fills Sherlock’s ears. Pressing his lips against John’s hair, holding John close to him, he willingly falls asleep for the first time in years.

_Wanna be yours, wanna be yours, wanna be yours_

John is yelling at him again, and it’s nothing really out of the ordinary except the reason behind his extreme emotional reaction. There isn't any remorse for comforting John that way, for sleeping with him, but his anger, unlike so many others, coaxes a response.

“— _not gay_ …” and Sherlock shuts the rest of it out, feeling shame building up and flickering upwards, consuming him faster than a spark consumes dry tinder on a windless night. He can hear John sighing exasperatedly in defeat, John turning away and walking down the stairs to grab his jacket.

_Let me be your ‘leccy meter and I’ll never run out_   
_And let me be the portable heater that you’ll get cold without_   
_I wanna be your setting lotion_   
_Hold your hair in deep devotion (how deep?)_   
_At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean_

“John, where are you going?” Sherlock finally says, getting up and quickly following after him.

“I’m going out, just for a walk,” John replies, not looking up at him, hand fidgeting on the door knob, eyes trained at the wall to his left.

“John, you know that I… that I am not good with words, with feelings and being human, as you have so graciously reminded me on numerous occasions. So bear with me now,” Sherlock says hurriedly, but with such a sense of urgency and sincerity that John takes his hand off the doorknob. “It seems horribly sentimental to resort to such ways of conveying how I feel. I know that I’ve said that emotion and, well, love is human error. I know that you see me as robotic, unhuman in mannerisms and my mind, but, John, it isn’t true. I… I don’t know much else to say except, in a very human fashion, something that I did not write or sing, because until now, until _you_ , I never understood how anyone could create anything like this.

“'I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust. I wanna be your Ford Cortina. I'll never rust. If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.' 'Wanna be your 'leccy meter, and I'll never run out. Let me be the portable heater, that you'll be cold without.' What I'm trying to get at is the fact that I want to be anything and everything to and for you. When I first came back, we already talked about how you felt when I apparently died, and now I do realize how much I meant, and, well, hopefully mean to you, which is something that was made clear to me last night when you dreamed of Afghanistan and I managed to help you."

“John… I know that you watch me when you think that I’m unaware of what you’re doing, and I can assure you that I am not. I thought that maybe you feel the, uh, same as I do."

John is silent, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock feels the constriction again, and he feels like he's asphyxiating, and the world is narrowing down, almost as if he's wearing pinpoint glasses that are focused on John, and John's face is all he can see. He clings to that image like a flotsam in the ocean, but he closes his eyes because it's too much to bear, just standing there, the seconds and minutes just ticking by. 

Sherlock doesn't notice John's eyes finally going to his face, and soft lips pressed against his are a lifeline pulling him out of the wreckage, pulling him up into a lifeboat, when he looks into the blue-green-brown-gray eyes of the man he adores. 

When they pull away, John has a small smile on his face. "I wanna be yours, Sherlock," he whispers a little abashedly, his cheeks colouring a little before he starts to chuckle at Sherlock's surprised expression. "Oh, trust me, I heard you playing that song all the time." And Sherlock smiles because John is smiling—they are happy, and they are together, and it is better than the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in their veins, the two of them against the world. 

_Secrets I have held in my heart_   
_Are harder to hide than I thought_   
_Maybe I just wanna be yours_   
_I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours_

The first time they have sex, they don't leave Sherlock's bedroom for days, the only exception being their base and biological needs. They've taken to sleeping there more frequently, or at least, John does, when Sherlock has a case, but Sherlock lays next to the sleeping man and holds him more often than he would ever admit. It's almost as if Sherlock is making up for his inability to tell John about his nightly habit through carresses and murmurings while he explores every inch of John's skin with his tongue and teeth, leaving red marks and bruises trailing from his neck down his shoulders and chest. Sherlock leaves them as a reminder to all those who would see John undressed other than himself would see  _his_ John. When Sherlock wraps his lips around John's cock, John keens so beautifully, and Sherlock mentally records it and stores it away, adding it to the growing file of his favorite sounds that John makes. The bitter and salty flavour of John's precome spreads across his tongue as he laps at the head, and then he licks up and down John, feeling the smooth, soft skin covering engorged, solid flesh. He takes John's cock into his mouth, sucking down as far as he can go before sliding back up, working the glans with his tongue as John arches up from the bed, the sheets clenched in his fist. And it's like this, John whimpering, no longer in fear but in pleasure and want, and begging, when Sherlock begins to open up John's tight, virgin hole with his lube-slick fingers. As one finger is replaced by two, and eventually three, John cries out each time Sherlock brushes against his prostate while Sherlock continues to prepare him. 

"You're so good to me," Sherlock whispers after letting John's dick fall from his lips, "Letting me open you up for my cock." He presses an open-mouthed kiss to John's gasping mouth and removes his fingers, and John whimpers into his lips and tongue.

_Wanna be yours, wanna be yours, wanna be yours_

When Sherlock slides into John, he murmurs into his panting lover's ear, "Are you mine?"

John can only respond with a whine, his lips mouthing to the lyrics of the song that Sherlock had played over and over again, months and months ago, when he first realized his feelings for John, "Wanna be yours, wanna be yours." And Sherlock begins to slowly thrust after John indicates he is ready, and each thrust is to that very same song, now on repeat as they affirm to one another that  _yes, I am yours_. 

The sound of slapping skin marks out the beat of the song; it matches the drumbeat and the bass line, and John cries increase in frequency as Sherlock angles his hips to hit John's prostate with each thrust.

_I wanna be your vacuum cleaner_   
_Breathing in your dust_   
_I wanna be your Ford Cortina_   
_I won't ever rust_

"More," John begs, and Sherlock complies—it's such a simple thing that he can do for a man he loves so much he nearly ended his life for. Those two years that he was gone equate themselves with two years that he might have well as been actually dead.

"I'm yours!" John gasps as the pleasure builds up, "Touch me, please!"

And Sherlock clasps John's cock, previously bouncing up and down against his lover's stomach, and he thrusts in time to the song, and he moves in time to the song.

Sherlock lowers his mouth near his lover's ear, bites it, and murmurs, "You are mine, and I am yours," each syllable punctuated by a gasp for breath. He kisses John, their teeth colliding, and John groans into his mouth, signifying his release alongside the warm spatters of come and his walls clenching against Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock gives in, and his pleasure crests, and he comes with one last deep thrust, John's name on his tongue.

_I just wanna be yours_   
_I just wanna be yours_

As the singer croons the last lines of the song, Sherlock softly sings along, "I just wanna be yours." John nestles himself more firmly against Sherlock, already past the post-orgasmic haze and the habitual clean-up, and he presses a kiss against the juncture of the skull and neck behind Sherlock's ear.

"You are," he whispers, and Sherlock turns to regard him, idly stroking his back and hair, and he has a sleepy look about his eyes. He leans in and kisses John's forehead.

_I just wanna be yours_

Sherlock falls asleep before John, who nuzzles against Sherlock, warming himself to dispel the coolness in the flat before quietly laughing. 

"You're the portable heater that I'm cold without," he whispers to the sleeping man.

And sleep then claims John as well—he no longer fears it: he no longer dreams of death, blood, heat, or sand, only of the man in his arms.


End file.
